by Olga Daniels
“Bring her round here, Richard. Let me get a better look at her.”
The tone of the Earl’s voice and his appearance and manners confirmed her worst suspicions. With her hand still lightly placed on Richard’s arm, she allowed him to guide her round the end of the table. The Earl turned towards them as they approached his chair. She was acutely conscious that the eyes of everyone in the Hall were fixed upon her, and there were few signs of friendliness—except from one or two of the men, and there was undisguised lasciviousness in their expressions. She was trembling, but determined to hide her fear. Almost unconsciously her fingers gripped Richard’s arm tighter.
Earl Thurton washed down the slice of beef with a draught of red wine from his goblet. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at her all the while.
“Stop,” he shouted suddenly.
They were close to where a circle of candles was suspended from a beam in the ceiling, casting more than the usual flickering light. They both stood still.
“Step back, Richard,” he commanded.
Gently Richard removed her hand from his arm. His fingers lingered, as if he was reluctant, but he obeyed his lord’s order. She missed the reassurance that had emanated from him when at her side. How comforting his close presence had been! She clasped her hands together in front of her, held her head high and returned stare for stare, not liking what she saw.
“Turn around,” the Earl growled.
She did so woodenly, suppressing her anger and humiliation.
“Not bad, as far as looks go,” he commented. “Not bad at all. Though she’d look better with a smile on her face. She’d be too thin for me, but could be right for—” He broke off, leaving Meg to wonder what he had been about to say.
“But those clothes! Aren’t they awful?” commented the woman beside him. “That style went out of fashion twenty years ago—they look as if they’ve come out of the ark!”
He grinned at the stupid joke. “Wherever did you get that gown?” he asked.
“It was my mother’s. I am proud to wear it.” Meg spoke defiantly.
He turned to the woman at his side. “You’ll have to take her in hand, eh, Nancy?”
“She certainly needs bringing up to date—lower necklines, softer, more feminine fabrics. Give me the money, Edmund, and I’ll get new gowns made for her.”
The Earl patted the woman’s knee. “Good. You see to it, Nan, and I’ll make it worth your while. A woman’s touch, that’s what she needs.”
“A woman’s touch to make her ready for a man’s.” Nancy chuckled, digging Edmund in the ribs as she said it.
He guffawed loudly, and the laughter was echoed all down the Great Hall. Meg glowered at them, prepared to fight if anyone dared to touch her. “She looks as if she doesn’t belong in this world,” he said. “I reckon you can change that, Nan. No expense spared at this stage, eh?”
“The nunnery has left its mark on her,” the woman agreed, running her eyes over Meg. “But there’s a good basis to work on. Leave it to me. You won’t think it’s the same girl when I’ve finished with her.”
Meg fumed at the manner in which they were talking about her, summing her up, as if she had no feelings, no mind of her own. She clenched her hands together till her nails bit into her palms, forcing herself to stand still, trying to ignore their comments. She would have liked to lift the skirts they so despised and run out of the Great Hall—but she had nowhere to go.
Suddenly she realised the Earl was actually addressing her. “How about that, Meg? Lots of nice new clothes—I’ll wager you’ll like that, eh?” His thick-lipped face, flushed with over-indulgence, wore a semblance of a smile. “You don’t need to worry about a thing. We’ll look after you now—get you fitted out in something more elegant. You’ll look irresistible when Nan’s finished with you.”
Meg stared at him coldly. Her scowl deepened. Did he really expect her to be pleased? The Earl banged his fist down so hard on the table that the trenchers and pots jumped noisily.
“Don’t look at me like that, girl. Give us a smile. This will cost me a deal of money and it’s all for your own good. Smile, I tell you—smile!”
What had she to smile about? She felt more like weeping. But she controlled herself. She managed to lift the corners of her mouth, though there was no amusement in her heart.
“My lord.” Richard’s voice rang out. “The lady is tired and hungry—will you not invite her to sit down?”
“Huh! Is she another one of these mawkish wenches they breed nowadays?”
“I can assure you that Lady Margaret is nothing of the sort.” Richard spoke slowly and clearly. “I am merely reminding you that she has ridden further in the past three days than ever before in her life, and she has stood the trial with great strength.”
He was challenging the Earl and speaking on her behalf. Meg could scarcely believe it! His words rang out clearly and immediately lifted her spirits.
“I am glad to hear it,” said Earl Thurton. “For it doesn’t show in her behaviour.”
“I should also remind you that Lady Margaret is still in mourning for her mother,” Richard added.
Meg listened to him gratefully. In this alien and hostile world, could she really hope that he might be her friend and champion?
It seemed that the Earl took note of his words, for he nodded in grudging acceptance. “All right. Well, there’s plenty of time to train her. Come, Meg. Sit here beside me. The page shall bring viands for you.”
She hoped his use of the diminutive of her name meant that he was softening his attitude towards her, but it was with dragging steps that she moved to take the seat the Earl indicated. On the table before her a trencher bread was already in place, together with a knife, spoon, bread rolls, and a goblet. The company in the Hall had already started eating and were well into the first course.
A page approached Meg, bowed low and asked, “Does my lady wish for a slice of the boar’s head? There is also beef and roast swan—or may I bring slices of each?”
She was hungry, and the roasts were succulent, well flavoured with mixed herbs. She elected to have the swan, a delicacy which had not often been served in the refectory at the priory. It was accompanied by rich gravy and a good selection of vegetables: chopped turnips, parsnips and fresh spring cabbage. Her goblet was filled with wine.
Even before she had been served, the Earl and the lady he had addressed as Nancy resumed eating and drinking, as did all the others in the Great Hall. Sir Richard had taken his place at the High Table, a slight distance away on her left. She glanced in his direction. She had expected him to be engrossed in the repast, for the food was undoubtedly excellent, well cooked and accompanied by rich sauces and gravy. He caught her eye, smiled and nodded in her direction, as if he knew that meeting his eye gave her courage. Instinctively she smiled back—it was as if an invisible bond magically linked them, and in that moment it tightened.
Where previously she had doubted his friendship, after his intervention on her behalf her attitude towards him had softened—just a little. It strengthened her to know he was there, even though her head told her that was ridiculous. He, like all the other men and women gathered in the Great Hall, were under the patronage of the Earl. No one would dare to cross him. Her own dear mother had tried to assert her rights, but had been driven out in fear for her own life and that of her baby daughter.
Meg still seethed with anger at the rude manner of her reception, but common sense warned her, just as Richard had, that it would be unwise to defy the Earl openly.
She had been hungry when she had first been assailed by the delicious smell of roasted meats; now each mouthful seemed tasteless. She ate because she wished to keep up her strength, and took a draught of the full-bodied red wine because she was thirsty. It was never wise to drink water. She kept her eyes downcast, concentrating on her trencher, though with an occasional surreptitious glance around. The Earl was so absorbed in his food and wine that he ignored her. He and
Nancy talked together and the rest of the household did the same, the chatter of voices swirling up in increasing volume.
Meg could see Sarah, well down the room, but not so far below as the roughly clad outdoor workers and their wives. She willed her to look up, but the message was slow to reach her. Sarah had eyes only for her trencher of meat or to engage those of Alan Crompton, who was close by her side. Then, suddenly, she looked up, a questioning expression on her honest, open face. To reassure her Meg winked, and with a cheeky grin Sarah winked back. That had been their way of communicating when they had been children in the nunnery and dragooned into long dull lectures.
There was nothing dull about that evening at the castle. The musicians in the gallery behind them played and sang and the sound of the lutes and virginals was pleasant, soothing to her ears. Meg almost began to enjoy herself. It was all so different from the nunnery—the food, the wonderfully bright hues and variety of the clothes, with the men being especially flamboyant. The wine had gone to her head a little. Perhaps she should be grateful for the money and the time and trouble her uncle was prepared to spend on her. It would be nice to have new gowns, pretty things to wear, soft silks and beautiful damasks.
A group of strolling players came into the Hall, clad in colourful costumes with bells jingling, and the atmosphere was changed again. They gestured, strutted around and shouted obscenities which produced loud roars of laughter from everybody—except for Meg. She had never heard or seen such vulgarity and was shocked. She could see nothing funny in the lewd jokes, and revealed this by staring poker-faced at the players. Her uncle and Nancy were wiping the tears from their eyes at the antics. When the Earl noticed that Meg was showing no sign of amusement, he turned towards her.
“What’s the matter with you, wench? Let yourself go—have a good laugh.”
“I beg your pardon, Uncle, but I do not find them funny.”
“My God! You’re hard to please. One of the best-known troupes in the land, I pay them an exorbitant amount of money—and you say they’re not funny!” he exploded.
“Not to me,” she said. “But perhaps it is because I do not understand what they are saying.”
“Then we’ll have to see to it that you get some lessons in humour,” he snarled. “You’ll never catch the eye of H—” He broke off as Nancy jogged his arm.
“Whose attention?” asked Meg.
“Nobody’s if you don’t buck up a bit,” he snapped. Then he raised his voice and shouted, “Richard!”
“Sir?”
Richard was laughing as he turned towards them, though not so uproariously as the Earl and Nancy. He was evidently amused by the performance, and that reminded Meg that he really was one of them. How foolish she had been to think that he might become a friend.
“Richard.” The Earl was not laughing now. “Your duties with Lady Margaret are not yet finished. You will take her in hand and teach her how to enjoy herself. Wake her up to some of the fun in life.”
Richard drew in a deep breath. He could think of nothing he would like better. In the days he had been in her company he had learned a good deal about the delightful Lady Margaret Thurton. The cloistered life she had led until he had taken her from the priory was strongly imprinted upon her. He knew that she had much to learn of the ways of the world. But in his assessment—and he was not unversed in such matters—she was indeed ripe for a man. What a pleasure it would be to have the privilege of teaching her all those adult and worldly pleasures and pastimes that were so much a part of courtly life and from which she had been sheltered.
Then he remembered. She was destined to become the wife—or more likely the mistress—of the cruel and lecherous King Henry. It was a sobering thought.
“Tell me, Meg,” requested the Earl, “do you know the galliard or lavolta?”
“I believe they are dances,” Meg replied.
“Of course they are dances! Everyone knows that—but can you dance them?”
“I have never learned,” she confessed.
“What about archery? Have you ever drawn a bow?”
She shook her head.
“Do you sing?”
At last, an attribute she could claim with honesty. “Oh, yes, my lord. I can sing. I have been praised for the quality of my voice, and I know most of the psalms in Latin.”
To her surprise and embarrassment the Earl burst out laughing. He turned to Nancy. “Want to hear one of the psalms?” he chuckled.
“I think not, Edmund. Not here and now.”
“Exactly. We’ll hand her over to you, Richard. See that my niece becomes well versed in all those necessary pleasantries to take her place properly in high society.”
“I shall deem it an honour, sir,” said Richard. Then he turned to Meg and smiled. “We will start tomorrow, in the morning, if it pleases you, Lady Margaret.”
“You will start tomorrow whether it pleases the lady or not,” shouted the Earl. “We have no time to waste. She has only a few weeks in which to acquire those graces necessary to take her place in society.”
Meg sat bolt upright, her face flushed with discomfort and anger. Again they were talking about her as if she was a performing animal that they owned. They offered her no voice in plans that seemed to be already made. A short training in pleasantries—and then what? Who was this mysterious suitor whose identity was never actually spoken? If it was a good match, to a pleasant and honourable gentleman, why was it all so secretive?
The future loomed menacingly before her, but she was determined to face whatever it held bravely. She was alive and strong. She was here at Bixholm, back in the castle of which she had no real recollection. She had often dreamed of returning to the place where she had been born. She had never imagined it being like this, but she told herself she must be prepared to face life here in the real world. Even though there was much that disturbed her she was willing to learn these additional graces—though it might be difficult to concentrate since her teacher was to be Sir Richard.
“I shall be ready to start tomorrow,” Meg said firmly.
“You may find it quite strenuous as you are unaccustomed to the dance or to outdoor pursuits,” Richard suggested. His voice was polite and gentle. “I would therefore suggest that you retire when you have finished your repast.”
“I am indeed very tired,” she murmured.
It would be a relief to exchange this rumbustious company for the privacy of her own bed-chamber. She flashed a grateful smile at Richard.
Earl Thurton noticed. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Hah! You have a smile for Sir Richard. Let me make it absolutely clear to you, Meg, he is not the one for you. You will regard him only as your mentor in matters of social etiquette, and especially he is to teach you to take that prim look off your face. I am proposing to take you to Court. You will be mixing with the liveliest and most fashionable people in England. I want you to shine among them.”
How would she ever manage to do that? The very thought of meeting and conversing with such people made her nervous. “I understand what you require and I shall do my best—” She choked on the words and stood up. “Pray excuse me—”
Richard was at her side immediately, offering his arm.
“Allow me to escort you to your chamber, my lady.”
“Thank you, Sir Richard.” She had control of her voice again.
The Earl waved her away, with a dismissive gesture, then picked up a bone and began to gnaw at it. With unhurried steps Richard led her away from the top table and down the length of the Great Hall. The entertainers were still at their nonsense, and the Lord of Misrule, playing his part, bowed mockingly in front of them. He capered and tried to persuade Meg to dance with him. Shyly she shook her head, and he pretended to look crestfallen—but she was aware that when his head was turned from her, he made another ribald comment. It sparked a great burst of laughter from the top table and made Meg feel foolish.
Richard tightened his arm against his side, a gesture of support that trapped h
er hand protectively close. There was something possessive in his touch, as if he wanted her to belong to him. If only it were so! She was sure he would never have made these unreasonable demands of her. She would have gone with him gladly, but the Earl’s warning rang in her ears—“He is not the one for you.”
“Do not trouble yourself over their antics, my lady,” Richard said. “It is not really personal. They only act thus because it is what they are paid to do.”
Would she ever understand this extraordinary world she had been precipitated into? Who could it be who would make such demands upon a wife?
Sarah and Alan stood up and followed, several steps behind, side by side. It seemed to take for ever to reach the door that led them into a stone passageway. Meg glanced at her companion and said, “I fear I am a great disappointment.”
“Far from it, my lady. They find you too good to be true.”
“Now you are laughing at me, too.”
“Not at all. I assure you they are delighted with you. I know them. I can read the signs. They have never met anyone quite like you before and they do not know how to behave.”
“On that point I agree with you.”
He smiled. “You even charmed Nancy.”
“How can you say that? She did nothing but criticise me.”
“Your clothing, not you. She was eager to undertake the task of introducing you to her dressmaker and ordering garments that will enhance your beauty.”
Meg blushed when he said that. She did not believe he could possibly mean it. She knew perfectly well that she was not beautiful. People had said that about her mother, never about her. It was a fact that she had inherited some of her mother’s features, but she was only too aware that her mouth was rather too wide, her nose not aristocratically aquiline and her hair of a pale colour. Clothes, of course, would make a difference. She knew enough of the world to see that she had to look as if she belonged to a wealthy family, as if she had a good dowry. Men of the aristocracy did not marry for looks alone, and almost never for love. If that came later it was a bonus—as it had been for her mother.